Billy tossed his head back in that whole Arial_hair_thrown_back.gif way to try and hide his yawn. Hand’s rubbing up and down his own stomach and wearing only red, glittery booty shorts nobody would’ve noticed anyway. Except for stupid Keith at the bar who would’ve told the manager in a way that totally blew it outta proportion.
Billy headbanged to the beat a bit if only to stop himself from eye rolling. He really wasn’t on a great vibe tonight. The novelty of Go-go dancing had worn off weeks ago and while the tips were nothing to sneeze at… there was only so much that was worth never getting all the glitter out of one’s hair.
Billy was on top of a black pedestal that had a little neon rim that sometimes changed colors. At the moment it was purple, the light reflecting off his boots that, yes, came with the uniform.
He just wanted a drink tonight. Or, no, a nap. Billy would like to request a nap before his night ended at four in the morning. He should’ve called in sick, this just wasn’t the night for shaking his ass and getting shouted terrible, Magic Mike referencing pick-up lines.
Billy flexed his arms above his head, showing off his biceps as much as possible, swaying his hips around, shaking his curls. Lookin’ pretty but not feelin’ it tonight.
Some nights Billy wanted to go full disco up here, damn the management’s reactions just to mix it up a little. The masses had seen everything, all the hair tossing, hand going under the shorts, hell he’d do squats at least twice every hour--and some nights his tongue almost felt sore form tryna be sexy.
Other nights, he really wanted to see how naughty he could make the macarena.
Yeah, Billy knew he couldn’t turn it off but turning the hotness up was a fucking work out.
Which led to sweat which made the body oil feel a bit pointless not to mention the glitter. Ugh, the glitter.
It was like as soon as he walked through the doors he got attacked. A smidge of mascara--eyeliner when Kali was feeling especially innovative--then head to toe in sparks that would end up in his sheets no matter how much he scrubbed in the shower.
His poor quilt.
His poor, poor towels.
His poor, oiled up self.
That was it, he needed a break. Arms still raised over his head he tried to catch Keith’s eye. The guy wasn’t looking around though. Fucker brought a damn Switch to hide behind the bar and Billy had to ‘check in’ just to re-apply deodorant.
It took real skill if he said so himself, to turn hopping up for a second into stomping down to the beat. His little audience seemed happy.
It was a busy night so it was hard to tell who was hanging out watching and who had just been stuck in the crowd on their trek to the bar and decided to enjoy the show.
Finally, he got Keith’s attention.
Billy was done with subtlety, he just stopped dancing and waved angrily.
Keith’s face got all gross and scrunched when Billy tapped at the imaginary watch on his wrist. The tall guy with the literal personality of a clothesline conceded though with a scoff and a nod.
Billy breathed in deep despite the smell of sweat and bad, bad Ed Sheeran remixes.
“Sorry people,” Billy said as he sat down on his little pedestal before slipping down to the ground. “Greg,” he saluted the bouncer beside his spot.
Grigori didn’t even grunt. K, fine. Be like that.
Billy didn’t make it a step.
“Hey,” a girl who’d been watching him for almost twenty minutes was suddenly all up in his space before he managed to get away through the crowd. “I’m Vickie.”
Billy smiled, “I’m on break.” he responded.
‘Vickie’ with her five-watermelon-vodka-shots-ago-artfully-messy-bun, heels that made Billy’s go-go boots look practical and that sheer-top black bra combo only leaned in closer.
Billy only liked watermelon so much, he leaned back a bit.
“I could be quick,” she hummed.
“And I could be straight, in another universe,” Billy smiled again and took her shocked expression as his que to raid the bar of all water bottles.
Steve weaved his way over to the sticky little metal table Robin had so valiantly taken the old shot glasses off of and set them in a safe space underneath a light up staircase.
Strawberry mojitos in hand--because this was gonna be a guilt-free night, dammit--Steve expertly weaved his way around people who looked like they were having a lot more fun then he was. People too off their rockers to be annoyed by the fact that this was the third Cabello remix or be bothered by the almost-but-legally-not-we-checked strobe lights.
This wasn’t one of those nights where even lame-asses like himself couldn’t escape body paint but as always there was club-wear that looked more like silly-string then cotton blend or like they’d managed to rip the tape off a traffic cone and attach enough to avoid arrest.
Steve’s own jeans and ironically ugly shirt--the thing had tiny flamingos on it, he wasn't gonna leave it at home-- combo wasn’t exactly made for a night of gyrating but that wasn’t why he was here.
Oh, no, there was one very important reason Robin had dragged him to this place--apart from his debit card and his car, oh and his sofa when Robin inevitably didn’t wanna drive all the way home--was the equal opportunity eye candy.
They could get drunk, people watch and revel in the unending possibilities of body-glitter.
There were some grade-A dancers at this place, and any guilt Steve felt over objectifying them had vanished the moment Robin slipped a fifty that wasn’t hers into one girl’s boot. A girl Robin was still watching when Steve reached the table.
“Ohh, murder my liver, please,” Robin said, holding out grabby hands.
Steve smiled. Robin was probably the only person in the entire place less-appropriately dressed in a Hawkin’s Powder Puff hoodie she’d cut in half every what she could and still keep some of the logo.
She did have on white shorts, which was why they were in a standing area.
Steve set the glasses down and just in time too when someone collided with his shoulder.
“Hey!” Steve called. “I just got shoulder checked by a…”
Steve’s words died somewhere between his tonsils and his deepest fantasies as he watched the most magical ass he’d ever seen walk away from him wrapped up in sparkly red spandex. It just bounced away--framed by some muscles thighs and a broad-shouldered back that was covered in glitter handprints.
He was blonde--or green haired, no blue, no those were just the lights making those curls look like a unicorn mane.
“By a real-life Grindr catfish.” His brain supplied. Then it kept going. “A porn genie. A fuckin’ GQ model that’s an incubus on the side. Robin that was a--”
“A hot go-go dancer, yes Steve.” Robin nodded along, already sipping away at her drink. “They’re the whole reason we’re here.”
“Yeah but that one is my new reason for cognitive brain function,” Steve thumbed over his shoulder for emphasis. “That one has the power to teleport to different dimensions, sexy dimensions. Really steamy, parental guidance level stuff--”
“Then go talk to the go-go dancer!”
Steve outright laughed. “Talk to the go-go dancer that probably gets hit on every four seconds in Old Navy jeans. Yeah. Totally.”
He leaned against the table on his elbows and Robin did the same. She, however, wasn’t looking at Steve. She was looking at the dancer on the pedestal closest to them who seemed to have matching shorts to the one who’s ass had just given Steve a lobotomy.
She was brunette, cute and who's doe-eyes looked pissed off at the universe--all the while highlighting glittery hips and a skin-tight crop-top as she jiggled.
“That Fifty?” Steve asked.
“Yeah, but I call her Benji,” Robin said, sighing into her palm.
“Cuz I put one in her other boot.”
“ Robin-- you did not give a hundred dollars to a dancer,” Steve said in disbelief. His broke friend, who he’d handed some--now he’s realizing far too much-- cash in the car so that they could switch off on drink runs and in case they Steve got too shit faced to drive home and--
“I spent a hundred and fifty on a go-go dancer.”
“Because she didn’t look like a Ulysses,” Robin said, completely at ease with her own shit logic. Steve groaned. “I’ll call her; Benji Grant. If Marvel hasn’t already trademarked it.”
“I’m not buying any more drinks. I refuse. Or no, I’m not paying any more drinks for you . You just shoved liver failure down a tube-sock,” Steve decided.
Robin turned to him, wide-eyed. She was already tipsy from half her drink. She had no tolerance… it was genuinely worrying.
“ No, but Steve, I’m your only friend,” she lamented, reaching a hand out towards him like E.T.
“I don’t need friends,” Steve sipped his drink. There was so much sugar, it was horrible. He slurped even faster before finishing his sentence. “I have money to tip gogo dancers.”
He left her hand there, waiting.
He caved after six seconds but that was really a new record for him.
He reached out and touched her finger waiting for the obligatory--
Billy downed one water bottle as soon as he made it to the gross lockers and twisted open another cap with his teeth.
Gross lockers that he still leaned back against anyway because they were cool and that felt so nice.
Billy needed a towel. And needed to re-apply his everything. First and foremost that whole will to live, or at least will to walk back out that door and shake What-Mommy-Issues-Left-Him.
He looked over at the mirrors where other dancers on their breaks where enjoying their own view.
Over by the costume rack, two girls were yelling at each other over a devil horns headband.
Billy reminisced in the magic of just starting this job, getting told things he already knew all the time, getting paid to put on the show he’d already be giving on a Friday night at a nightclub.
The whole ‘no touch’ bit was pretty hot before Billy saw just how much of a necessity it was. But the usual bouncer they had with him, Grigori, was damn terrifying and could probably break a man's hand with his crew cut.
And, yeah, Billy was getting laid but certainly not any more than before because now he had a shift to finish before he could go satan’s tango.
“ Kali,” he groaned when he stopped the almost-manager. Basically ran everything while crack-pot owner Axel did whatever-the-fuck. “I feel gross. I don’t dance sexy feeling gross help me.”
Kali just glared at him but reached over the two arguing dancers for a beloved towel.
“You haven’t got long,” she said, handing him the cloth which he instantly wiped his neck, then his face, then his chest, then his face again probably messing up all of Kali’s hard work judging by her subsequent groan.
“You--Billy, go sit I need to do your eyeshadow again,” Billy smiled at her. She looked back at him like he was a roach. “You look like you have a black eye, you shit head.”
Billy laughed, shouldering his way onto a seat in front of the mirrors where the lighting was less shit.
“Hey!” Carole said, sneering at him. Was she? Oh, Christ, she was drawing whiskers on her face what the hell?
Billy just sneered back before Kali had him by the chin, tilting his face up with a cotton ball at the ready.
“One day, one day you will let the long-lasting, waterproof shit we pay for, be.”
Eight minutes later Billy’s face was gussied up, he was re-oiled, hair re-done, and he’d once again refused to let Kali wax his ‘stache. Just, no. It was part of his whole look, please Kali, not again.
Then he was sent back into battle.
Steve decided a game plan had to be made when The-Ass-That-Could-Send-Steve-To-Mass retuned. He looked shini er. His hair taller, step more bouncy with the giant rubber soles of his boots. The lights did so many great things to the litter as they flashed across his skin.
And to make matters wonderfully worse Steve got a look at the guy’s face.
“Oh my god he’s cuter then Zac Efron what the fuck is that bullshit,” Steve said to Robin as he watched the dancer with the big curls and the tiny red shorts lift himself up onto her perch with biceps that did things to Steve. Made him feel tingly in all the places you’d assume and then seven more places.
"Why do you think he has a whistle?" Steve wondered aloud, looking at the little piece of plastic that bounced on his chest.
"Maybe it's a fondle-alter for the management to kick out touchy people," Robin concluded, actually squinting at a male dancer for the first time that evening.
"Do ya it happen that often he needs a whistle?"
“Hmmm don’t care,” Robin huffed. “Benji’s taking a break I have no reason to hold in my pee any longer.”
Oh, well, that was just great. Steve sighed as Robin got up and walked away into the lights and the crowd where people definitely looked to be having too much fun. Like that old commercial that ended in a goldfish swimming upstream with salmon that honestly made up too much of the foundation of Steve’s self-confidence.
But anyway, what was he saying?--he slurped down the end of his fruity monstrosity--Oh, right. Fun. Having disproportionate fun.
Like that dancer. Far too much fun. An uncontrollable amount of a good time as he swung his hips around making the glitter on his stomach--read: absabsabsREDALERTthisisnotadrill-- pop and then dropped into a goddamn squat.
If Steve had been a different Steve entirely he would’ve had the strength to shatter the glass in his hand out of sheer sexual frustration.
God, why god?
Why did you let a man like that combine oil and body glitter? Why woman??
Everything tensed and bulged where it was supposed to, and if for a second you thought it was too easy just to focus on his crotch the glitter didn’t let you forget those thighs as they flexed oh-dear-shit.
The dancer twisted his back a bit and Steve thought he spotted a tattoo, ugh, a tattoo.
Steve ran a hand through his hair as if it would expel his excess loneliness.
Then the go-go dancer, the man who woke him up like Wham! did something impossible as he slowly raised back up, rolling his hips and rubbing his hands up his own legs as he did so.
He looked at Steve. He looked at Steve.
Steve did a terrible thing, a thing that showed you why he wasn’t in college and why his date for the night was a lesbian.
The gave the go-go dancer a thumbs up.
He thumbs-upped the hot go-go dancer.
He gave the ethereal go-go dancer the in-real-life equivalent of a like. Not even a comment. True minimal effort on his part towards the go-go dancer what the fuck Steve.
The guy smiled at him and winked.
Steve made everything worse by dropping his face into his hands, dragging Robin’s siphoned drink closer to check for just a little for-get-me juice. He needed to get them new drinks.
Billy couldn’t help but smile at the guy a few tables away. He must’ve liked what he saw because there were two other dancers who were certainly closer. One was Heather, who was certainly on-par with skill. So Mr. Big Hair who’d given him a thumbs up must’ve been into a different variety, or at least, he was tonight.
His first weekend dancing Billy had three guys walk up to him saying he’d ‘turned them gay’ like he’d be honored or something. Like it was his responsibility to suck them off because he had great pecs.
Yeah, the piercings did stuff to people. But this dude seemed just a little… starstruck, not blatantly horny. Which was cute. Especially when one was already cute and wearing a dumb, tight shirt with some kind of stupid designer pattern on it and with just enough buttons undone.
Billy. If only the guy’d look at him for more than two seconds, then maybe he could see how--
Thumbs-up snapped his head up, looking over in the direction of the bathrooms. He’d had his phone under his crossed arms and it underlit his face.
His very, very pretty face.
Billy had to suddenly be extremely aware of himself to make sure he was still dancing as he watched the guy. Watched him stand up normally and if he squinted as particularly bright light passed over him-- oh my god those were tiny flamingos on his shirt. Wow, that was cute.
That was very, very cute wow.
And he was tall. Maybe. It was always hard to tell from up here. Billy always got mad when he’d catch a guy’s eye across the club and once on level ground the first thing out of his mouth was ‘ Oh you’re shorter than I’d thought--’
It’d happened four times.
Four times. And it wasn’t as if Billy was actually short. He wasn’t! And bis boots even gave him an inch and a half! There was no reason to be surprised that someone would be short- er while no longer on a four-foot pedestal at lit up and made them sparkle.
He was five-ten! Seriously, why he had these problems, he’d never know. The universe had to even out his life for making him this hot, or something.
He supposed he could be a lot worse off, what with, his face being on the level that it was.
Steve looked at Robin’s latest text.
[id baf tth7o can6 fine pp4 twls]
Which, alright. That could mean. Something.
The baf was somehow the most concerning.
As he stared down at his screen it buzzed against the metal table with another message
Okay, he saw the idea with that one. She was yelling at him.
Robin was yelling at him.
He snapped his head up in the direction of the bathrooms. Which was probably going to be the worst? He’d see.
Steve took a step away from the table. Then paused. If he left. There would be no one to guard the table. Even with drinks on it, it wasn’t safe because Steve and Robin were those people who took old drinks off off tables and damned the sticky consequences.
So he did the smart thing, rested his elbows back on their beloved claim and called Robin.
She picked up after the first ring.
“There’s no paper towweeellss,” she explained.
“Oh, that makes sense,” Steve said, looking back at the message. He supposed the six and the T were relatively close together on the keyboard.
“You sound drunker over text, you know,” Steve mentioned, because that was probably important to his friend as she was muttering about paper towels and not wearing enough clothes to justify using them to dry off.
“Just air dry,” Steve tried.
“Just air dry,” she mocked.
“Oh, just come back to the table and use cocktail napkins. You should be headed back here anyway if you’ve lost that much control of your thumbs. You ready to call it a night?”
“No!” Robin exclaimed, “Not without Benji’s number. Which means we’ll have to stay here… three years, realistichahlly.”
“Okay, hun, do you need me to come get you?” Steve asked, trying to strain his head over the dancing people.
“ No, no. I’m on my way. M’not that drunk.”
“Uh-huh.” Steve only calmed down when he saw Robin.
“We’re ordering food,” Steve said as soon as she got back to the table.
Robin rolled her eyes, leaning forward on her elbows yet again, “Calm down, mama-bear.”
One skill Billy learned early on seemed to be what he could only refer to as gogo-shorthand. Which was, in essence, miming sexily to fellow dancers.
He and Heather had gotten good at it. They’d figured out having matching costumes tended to get them stationed closer, and other then Kali and Grigori Heather was the only one Billy could stand. Certainly the only dancer.
They shared similar outcast statuses brought upon them by being too pretty.
And there was something he really wanted to talk to her about. But one of the problems with dancing side by side was that it usually meant having to take breaks at different times. So they didn’t get a chance to swap hot gossip and at the moment there was something he definitely wanted to mention.
He really wanted to yell about how the guy who’d been staring at him all night and the girl who’d tipped Heather not once but twice were sitting at the same table being about as platonic as they could be. That, or they were a couple steadfast against PDA and were on the hunt tonight.
Either way, Billy knew he, or Heather-- or possibly both-- could benefit.
So back to the sex-dance-talking.
As the bass dropped did the move, the one that got attention, that one that involved dropping down and slapping his own ass with both hands. His audience whooped. He spotted flamingo-shirt drop his phone.
And, most importantly, at the commotion, Heather looked his way.
He did the ‘c’mere’ finger crook, a finger that found itself dragging up his stomach, then chest, then into his mouth.
Heather cocked an eyebrow at him as she swayed at did cute-sie hugging her own shoulders bit before spreading her arms out with the chorus of whatever atrocious song this was.
Billy saw the little shrug.
Billy had to point at Either-They-Were-Besties-Or-Married table, and he couldn’t exactly point.
But he had other tools at his disposal. And the club-goes seemed to enjoy him locking his hands behind his head and trusting in the table’s direction just fine.
Heather’s head snapped over. He saw her smirk.
She turned to fully face him, hands rubbing down her own stomach. Billy watched her thumb shoot out for just a second as she mouthed ‘Them?’.
Billy nodded, wagging her tongue at her.
Heather’s smile, although charming, probably would look semi-homicidal to some.
But Billy knew she was just excited.
"Do you think he knows?" Steve asked, leaning in towards Robin. He was still club-shouting though because of the music.
Robin turned to him, her tiny turtle chapstick in hand. Moments before, she was swooshing it around making it 'swim'. "Humh?"
"You think he can tell I'm bi?" Steve reiterated, head bobbing to the only him he cared about tonight.
Robin tilted her head, concentrating as the music changed.
"It's my favorite masterbanthem!!" Robin shouted when a Hailee Steinfeld remix came on. Which meant she totally wasn't listening to Steve. "We need to go dance."
"Robin, we don't dance." Steve reminded her, snagging her by the shoulder as she bounced away from their table towards the dance floor. She’d bounced back enough to stop slurring. But that was all. "And I had an important question."
Robin spun on her Vans. Yes, Vans in the club, tonight. This was Steve's life.
Robin gave him the 'as a functioning lesbian I am superior' pout--y'know the one--and spoke.
"Steve, you are wearing a women's Tory Burch shirt. It has tiny flamingos on it. He knows how you swing."
Steve scoffed, putting his hands on his hips, "Well, it didn't fit you. So. Don't be bitter."
“Stop me,” Robin sniffed.
“Okay, I’m getting food.”
Billy and Heather had managed to silently explain to each other that they were indeed into their respective fans sharing a table.
And Billy had discovered that Heather’s fan had tipped her over a hundred bucks.
Obviously, his was a cheapskate. He better have a huge dick or something to make up for it.
Billy had no idea what time it was now. Nor did he know if flamingo would last until his shift ended. Probably not, not many did. And he was pretty enough to spot somebody else who wasn’t on the job at the moment to take home.
This really was not his night. Not that Billy would’ve even spotted the guy had he not come into work today. Billy tended to avoid nightlife and just sleep whenever he wasn’t on shift.
Billy must’ve actually been focusing on dancing for once because when he looked up Mr. Good Hair With A Side Of Encouragement was missing at that little table. Ms. Tipper was, though. She looked tipsy and was glaring at where Carole had taken over for Heather at the nearest podium, dressed up in black and cat ears because if that girl was anything it was unoriginal.
Billy knelt down by Grigori, “Hey, watch my back for a sec, yeah?” he asked.
The bouncer turned to look at him. Even on the platform, Grigori was taller than him squatting like this.
“Why?” he asked simply.
Billy scrunched his nose at the guy, “Cuz I’m your favorite ever since I bit the guy who tried to stick his finger in my mouth.” Billy truly took risks on this job, doing stuff like leaning down and sticking his tongue out for people to enjoy.
Grigori grunted. But nodded.
Billy slipped down off his perch and grinned back at his lovely bouncer as he watched him instantly step in front of a dude who practically lunged at Billy the moment his feet touched the ground.
“Hey beautiful--?” was all he got out before Grigori shoved simply laid a hand on his shoulder. The silence was telling.
Billy waved his way through the crowd. He saw Carole glare at him for leaving his spot. He was gonna get shit from Keith and Carole.
Awesome. Billy internally groaned as he neared the little table that had sucked up a big part of his focus that night.
"I need King Princess," the girl sitting alone at flamingo shirt's table said to her margarita. "I need lesbian tragedy bops. I'm only here to cry and be gay."
"Get in line, bitch," Billy said.
The girl's head snapped up, looking at him with wide, challenging eyes, "We make a line, I'll leapfrog you."
What the fuck?
Billy raised his hands in surrender, “You cry first then, but I get to be gay.”
“Impossible,” the girl--who was actually super cute? Go Heather?--narrowed her eyes at Billy like he was a word problem. “They’re mutually exclusive.”
“Like you and your buddy?” Billy asked, smiling in a way he hoped wasn’t too smooth because then he’d just look like a try-hard.
“I hope you are referring to me and this beverage because if you mean Steve, ew.”
Steve. Of course he was a Steve. He couldn't have looked more like a Steve.
“Steve?” Billy smiled in a way he knew was too try-hard. The girl only got more suspicious, red lips tilting down at the corners.
“Where’s the girl in matching shorts?” she asked--no bargained. Billy would’ve felt a little bad about selling Heather out if he didn’t know how happy this would make her. There were at least three covered shifts in his future, especially if this girl was the relationship type. He could even trade off a few Friday shifts.
“Go to the back door,” Billy thumbed over his shoulder. “Ask for Heather, say Billy sent you and then some.” Billy winked at her.
The girl looked excited. Then suspicious. Then conflicted. Then--
“Do I have to wink?”
“Oh, definitely. It’s a must.”
She cracked him a smile, “Okay, Billy. I guess I can trust you to save our table?”
“Will you really be needing it?” Billy leaned forward on the table. He was still smiling. The girl’s grin gradually got wider.
“ Heather,” she said wistfully as she walked away.
When Steve got back to the table, dirty chips in hand, and also some in mouth Robin was not at the table.
The go-go dancer was. The blonde, shirtless, ripped go-go dancer. The one who, unlike all the other shirtless, ripped go-go dancers, Steve had been staring at all night. The one who Steve thought, maybe, just maybe he was some late-night fever dream resulting from Steve's dude-centered dry spell. Like the universe shouting 'Hey Steve? Forget your bi for a second? Well--HERE!'.
Steve just about dropped his dirty chips.
“Hey,” the guy said, smiling at him. Steve had never seen him this close and up front before. He was so goddamn pretty with the big round eyes, bigger hair, and tiny shorts. “I’m Billy.”
Steve dropped his chips onto the table. Which was where they were supposed to be dropped. The table, not the floor, along with his dignity as he oggled the go-go dancer.
There were many things he could start this conversation with. Had he been able to see even two minutes into the future, he wouldn’t have picked his next sentence. Or, well, he probably wouldn't have. Since Steve was a dumbass and the like. It was as if Steve was that desk toy from Megamind that was the facet for an existential crisis, just going back in for more. Only the more was stupidity. And Will Farrel was God, looking down on him and asking 'why?' all the while not doing shit himself.
Meanwhile; back to the mistake sentence.
“Robin? Oh, oh you mean Ms. Tips,” the sexy dancer-- Billy --concluded. “Probably the back room.” The guy started to inch his hand across the table. Probably headed for Steve’s chips. He was wearing a few rings, two on one thumb and another two scattered over his hand. His nails looked immaculate with clear polish. Robin had done his nails once, yes, he'd been asleep at the time but the ending result had been--Oh wait, Robin.
“What?” Steve probably sounded more upset then he was. He was upset though, a little. Or--he didn't know. It was a tie. He was talking to the go-go dancer but her maybe drunk friend was unaccounted for.
The dancer’s smile dropped, “She wanted to go hang with my bud Heather so--?”
“Who is Heather?” Steve asked, bringing a hand to his forehead. Robin had been sobering up. But then he’d gotten margaritas when he discovered the chips would take forty minutes and she’d pressured him and he’d caved, like usual. C'mon, if we're not drinking we're just being alone at this table. Clubs were true hell.
“Uh, the dancer she’s been eyefucking all night,” Billy snapped. Steve--not to sound like a forty-year-old-man--did not like that tone. “Listen--”
Steve stepped around the table, “No, you listen, buddy,” then Steve made his first big mistake. The pissy Robin-focused-sentence had been a social misdemeanor. With the 'buddy' he'd just conversationally killed a man. No grown man called another grown man buddy unless they wanted to lose things they really liked. Like their teeth, or moral obligations to not non-conversationally kill people. This was the domino tipping. He reached out at shoved two fingers into the guy’s chest. He looked down and there, under the plastic whistle, oh-- his nipples had barbells who was this guy?
Billy slapped his hand away.
“Don’t touch the merchandise. Listen, buddy, I can get you banned for life!” he shouted at Steve.
“You don’t scare me, asshole,” Steve snapped right back. Not his most original work, but the pissed off emotion was there.
“Oh, oh yeah?” the dancer marched up to Steve. This close, he noticed the eyeshadow highlighting his already so-so pretty eyes. They gleamed in the club lights.
He never saw the punch coming.
“Why do you have a whistle?” Robin asked, one hand in Benji’s--no, Heather’s, her name was Heather and that was Robin’s favorite kind of bitchy--hair, ruining the bouncy ponytail held up by a red, glittery scrunchy. The other hand pulling her closer by said-whistle.
“Cuz I’m supposed to be a lifeguard,” Heather against Robin’s cheek, pushing up against Robin, squishing her tightly against the wall.
“Oh my god, that’s so cute. Did you pick that?”
“Mn, no. My friend Billy did. We started doing matching costumes ever since he accidentally took my blue thong but looked better in it.” Heather explained. Then Heather leaned in and kissed her, sticky with lip gloss and hot with sweat where Robin moved her hands to hold her by the small of her back.
Yes, please, tongue.
Steve’s right cheek stung and he was thrown back against the dinky little table he’d been obsessing over all night. It didn’t even begin to hold his weight, tipping, sending overpriced not-nachos to the floor. By some miracle, he caught himself--or Billy caught him and hoisted Steve up by the shirt.
Getting punched in the face buy a pretty dancer with pierced nipples and, yep, a tattoo--a skull with a cigarette that was so stupidly charming--should not have been the third hottest thing to ever happen to Steve. But his biceps bulged as he stretched one of Steve's favorite shirts out and Steve was lost to the land of both the horny and the afraid.
“Cheapskate and an asshole,” he said, Steve shook his head to focus. Focus on--not nipples because this was a fight. Not foreplay. Right? “I come here,” the dancer tossed him down, Steve slipped on the messy nightclub floor down onto the magically people-free space behind him. Chips crunched under him. Music was blaring, people were yelling. “So you can buy me a drink, we talk, I suck you off.” Steve got his elbows under himself and tried to scramble back at Billy dropped down onto his chest.
“End of story,” he continued as Steve huffed, he grabbed the guy’s waist-- oh, why was he so warm while trying to murder Steve? “But nooo, you had to--”
Steve managed to roll them. Flipping Billy onto the ground and still between his legs--which was still weird, and hell, weren’t there bouncers who were supposed to stop fights?
“Oh--fuck, I shouldn’t have worn a bra tonight,” Robin muttered as Heather’s hand slid under her cropped sweatshirt.
“Why, you look cute?” Heather said, pulling away from where she’d been mouthing at Robin’s neck.
“Cuz not it’s in the way,” Robin complained. Heather’s ponytail was long dead, the scrunchy now on Robin’s wrist and she was going to keep it forever so that she would have a reason to hunt Heather down tomorrow and return it but only if they had coffee--
“We’ll work around it,” Heather smirked, her lip gloss was gone but those pouty lips were just bitten red now. Robin trembled against the wall.
“Yeah?” she whispered. The sounds of other people yelling, music blasting, all faded as Heather leaned in close, that hand cupping her breast, the other sliding down her waist.
Billy trashed back against Steve, stuck face first on the club floor, shirtless. Steve, Steve who had to be a total dick and yeah, maybe he shouldn’t have punched the guy in the face. But he was in a fucking flamingo shirt he wasn’t supposed to have a jaw of steel.
“I think,” Steve leaned down beside Billy’s face, Billy sneered. Steve was huffing from the exertion of holding him down and where the fuck was Greg, huh? “This got outta hand.”
“ Fuck you,” Billy, tried to get an arm under himself, but Steve’s elbow was right in the fucking middle of his shoulder blades and damn it hurt.
“I should stop playing nice, huh?” Steve asked. Then Billy felt it, the hand in his hair. Practically felt the hairspray crunch under Steve's fingers.
“What the fuck do you think you’re goddamn doing asshole--?”
Steve pulled. Nothing like pulling hair out, not like a real fight, but enough to lift Billy’s head up, craned his neck back, making his skin tingle. Billy couldn't help it. It was just a reaction, like turning on the tap, his hair was the handle and the water, was, well--
“Uuhhnnnhh!” he moaned.
Robin had her legs locked around Heather’s hips as they rutted together. Oh, oh god she was hot all over and that spandex hid nothing. Those were definitely nipples Robin was seeing through her red top whenever they weren’t kissing. They were so perky. Robin wanted to bite them. But right now Robin kissed Heather back furiously, hand gripping her shoulders--along for the ride.
When Billy moaned, Steve froze. A statue laying on top of Billy. A statue who's ass he was about to beat.
When Steve froze, Billy took the opportunity to free himself, bucking Steve off him and rolling to the side.
Billy glared down at the asshole he’d thought was so ‘cute’ not ten minutes ago. Steve meanwhile, hand his mouth hanging open and looked glassy-eyed, still crouched on the ground.
Billy scrambled to his feet. He kicked Steve in the shoulder, sending him flat onto his back again, he shoved one gogo-booted foot into his chest.
“You just--?” was all Steve said looking up at him in shock. His face was red and his hair was a mess. Billy had torn a few buttons in his shirt so it hung wide open.
Oh, this was actually a little fun. This dumbass was just supposed to be a pretty wimp. If he wasn't Billy wasn't gonna complain.
Billy leaned down, pressing his weight in and watching Steve’s eyes regain a measure of coherence. Billy was seriously off his game with this guy because the moment Steve stopped loading he grabbed Billy’s ankle and twisted sending him back to the ground with a yelp.
“He- Heather--” Robin moaned in their little staff bathroom. It was probably so gross. But Robin didn’t care, “Oh, oh my god-- oh my god--”
"Y'know, before this gets much further, uhn," Steve had the dancer in a headlock but the guy was grinning. He obviously had a screw loose. Steve had dodged a bullet. A sexy, blonde bullet who was probably as crazy in bed as he was in a fight and-- this was not what Steve should be thinking about.
“Before--y’know,” the dancer continued, smiling with his tongue between his teeth up at Steve, all the while gripping at his forearm to try and rip it away, “You should know, my safeword is Terminator.”
Steve, who was fairly sure he was entirely human, short-circuited.
Which again gave Billy a second to take advantage and so yet again he scrambled out of Steve’s grip and was sitting on top of him, fist raised.
And then, his entire body raised?
It took Steve’s brain a minute to process the fact that Billy had just been bodily lifted by one of the largest men he’d ever seen.
The guy, obviously a bouncer by the all-black outfit and terrifying everything, had Billy around the waist with both arms and seemed completely unphased as the guy yelled and kicked at him.
“Greg--!! Put me the fuck down you asshole! Of course, now you show up your utter shit--”
“I’m bored of this,” he said in a thick Russian accent, and Steve wanted to laugh at the cliche-ness of it. “And you are no longer my favorite.”
“GREG!! I swear to Jesus fucking--”
“Hey Heather--Oh CHRIST--”
Robin and Heather froze. Wide-eyed, Robin glanced over her uh, partner’s shoulder to see a girl with whiskers drawn on her face looking grossed out at them.
“Of course. You're here fingering someone and Billy’s trying to murder a guy. You need to come get a handle on him now.”
Heather’s head snapped up from Robin’s neck.
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Billy.” Heather groaned, her hand slipping out of Robin's shorts.